Blessed Are The Pure Of Heart: February 2016

Sunday, February 28, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 124 - Evangelizing The Dying, Part Two

Sowing seeds of faith is a labor of love we don’t always get to see bear fruit. During those times I believe God calls someone else to nurture the seeds to maturity, thus producing a bountiful harvest in His time.

- Lara Hosselton

Faith, while facing terminal illness, is something that fluctuates.

I'm writing this post in bits and pieces, because pain has become a simple beasting. It's not controlled, and it certainly doesn't seem to have any meaning.

And it can't be endured. It's way past that. There are those who would say that you have to push on through obstacles. But there are some obstacles that break you.

And so...what?

Seeds, that's what.

If someone walked up to me with a full-on evangelistic message right now...that God loves me and that this is happening for a reason, to bring me 'closer' to Him, I'd request that they take their advice and treat it...well, unconventionally.

But that is in the moment, and the moment, right now, is hideous. Trying to describe it further would require scatalogical language, to which I'm not averse...but not, generally, acceptable for blogging.

The seeds, though, do mature.

Planting the seeds, even when repaid with cynicism, is not a pointless exercise, no more than was Christ's Passion.

There is loneliness here, a terrible gut-shot loneliness.

There is fear. How much worse will it hurt tomorrow?

And there are also seeds growing.

Foremost is the seed that says, "Tell the world about this...that life is still worth living...and that God did not bring the pain, but He'll help you through it, if you let him."

And here...the seed that says, "Life goes on for everyone else...and you can still contribute, if you're willing. You can still encourage, and extend a friendly hand."

If you can, please do leave a comment. I am trying to answer all, and I am failing, but please know this - I read and treasure each one.

Below are my recent releases on Kindle -please excuse their presence in the body of the blog. I haven't the energy to get them up as 'buttons' in the sidebar. You can click on the covers to go to the Amazon links (they're 99 cents each). And if you'd like a free PDF, please email me at tempusfugit02 (at) gmail (dot) com, and I'll gladly send them

Thursday, February 25, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 123 - Meanings

And again, Five Minute Friday, and I'm writing ahead of time. I know that I won't be up to writing later tonight. There's just no way. Feels like someone's trying to remove my pancreas without anesthesia.

Actually, it feels like I've been shot, and I know how that feels.

So...apologies to Kate and everyone...if I can add some words on This Week's Word, I will. Doesn't look good.

But I can still do five minutes' writing.

To begin...

I know quite well that something wonderful is waiting for me on the other side of Death. I've had a week to think about it, and the memory of the Near-Death Experience from last week is still fresh in mind...

Fresher and more vibrant, in fact.

And still there is this melancholy, because I don't want to leave.

This place...it's not Heaven, and the difficult days are nothing like what they will be there.

I cannot remember what it is to be pain-free. I can't remember what not having the dry heaves that wouldn't stop feels like.

And yet, I'd rather be here, and I will fight to the death...hahaha...to stay. I'll leave claw marks on the pearly gates.

But why? Even writing this, it seems ludicrous, and faintly stupid. I mean, offing oneself is clearly wrong, but why not a calm and gentle acceptance?

Why do I intend to face, sword in hand, the angels that will come to bear me off?

I guess there's one reason, and one reason only.

This is my home, this life, and I think it's worth defending.

If the life I'm living has no more meaning than it could just be put aside for the benison of eternal good times, that I could down tools and walk away when I see the chance to split, then none of it ever had any meaning at all.

And that's not the case.

The meaning here is writ larger There, and the love I give it, in gladly choosing pain over deliverance, is the proof of the value of that which is loved.

The meaning of Meaning is Love.

It's the validation of Heaven.

That's it.

The musical inspiration for this post came from the Foo Fighters, with "Walk", part of the soundtrack for Thor.

It contains the line "I never wanna die!"...and if you watch it you'll get a very good idea of why taking me to a hospital is a bad idea.

Tuesday, February 23, 2016

The Pure Warrior - A Story of Viet Nam {#BlogBattle}

Time for this week's #BlogBattle, the weekly flash-fiction contest hosted by Rachael Ritchey

This week's keyword is Pure.

The Pure Warrior

Con Thien was the last place you'd expect to find one.

Another sweep into the Z, and this didn't look like a good one. The NVA was building their strength, and from the amount of mortaring we were getting, they had a lot of toys to play with.

We were going out with The Dead, once again, to try to whittle them down. We and the New Guy Tank and a company of riflemen.

No tracks. The last APCs that got sent out didn't come back, and neither did the dismounts they were carrying. Mr. Charles had a lot of RPGs, too.

So it was going to be a slow couple of days...walking pace, laager up for a night, stroll back.

The night before pushoff, there was a voice from the darkness. "Hey, tankers...got a minute?

Sonny was eyeballs up in the TC cupola, on radio watch, while The Dude, Biff and I were trying to catch a bit of sleep under the tank, but none of us were sleeping. One of our insomniac mortar crews was keeping up a steady stream of illume, keeping the bad places beyond the perimeter lit in an eerie full-contrast tableau.

"Sure," I said.

"Well, where are...oh, down there." The oldest Marine I ever saw squatted down under the glacis. The flarelight deepened the creases in his face, and his eyes were nearly lost in a web of crows'-feet. The skin on his hands was liver-spotted, and he had the rough voice of a lifetime smoker. "How you doin', guys?"

"We're here," I said.

"Yeah. Us, too."

I looked closer, and realized that we were talking with the Dead's sergeant major. He'd been through The Canal, and Tarawa, and he was said to have a lot of Japanese metal in him.

"What can we do for you, sar'nt major?" asked The Dude.

The old man took a knee. "Guys, tomorrow's going to be kind of bad."

"So we gathered," replied The Dude. "Worse than bad?"

The sergeant major nodded. "Way worse."

Biff's voice had a quaver in it. "Ho much, sir?"

You don't call an NCO 'sir', not even a sergeant major; unlike officers, they work for a living. But the old Marine smiled. "How old are you, son?"

"Nineteen, sir."

"You're the gunner, right?"

"Yessir."

"Well, tell you what...you keep Mr. Charles' head down for us, and we'll keep the rockets away from you, and you'll be able to turn twenty. My word. Deal?" The sergeant major put out his hand.

"D-d-deal."

"Okay."

As the old Marine walked away, Biff was crying softly.

***

We ran into heavy contact just two miles into the Z, climbing a gentle grassy slope to a crown that was lined with brush.

The NVA were disciplined. They let the point platoon walk into a fire sack, and cut them to ribbons. As I dropped into eyeball defilade n the cupola I saw the men fall, either dropped by bullets or hitting the ground in desperation. It was hard to tell which, but in seconds they were all down in the grass.

I yelled into the radio to the New Guy Tank, "Up on line! Now!"

The Good Ship Lollipop surged forward, level with us, fifty yards to our left, and New Guy TC was down in his cupola, just his eyes showing. Just like me. The urge to self-preservation was turning him into a veteran.

A very heavy weight of fire was coming in, pinging off the armor, and volleys of rockets wooshed past, leaving snaky white trails in the air. The noise was intimately physical, an oppressive crackling roar whose small variations made it seem like an evil living thing.

"Biff, unload the tube and put some willie pete in their faces!" We couldn't fire cannister because the point platoon was in the way. Blinding Mr. Charles with fire and smoke was the best we could do. "And get on the coax!"

The tube elevated and boomed, launching the cannister it carried harmlessly into wherever, and then the breech clunked as Sonny slammed in a willie pete.

BOOM!, and a bloom of white smoke appeared in the scrub-line where the heaviest fire was coming from.

"Again!"

New Guy TC had the same idea, and a line of white smoke started reaching to join ours. We were doing OK. The trailing platoons flanked us, and were getting ready to move forward to try to get the point guys back.

ZING!

A bullet hit the hatch just behind my head, and snapped down into the turret, an angry ricocheting wasp. Sonny cried out, then swore...and I could smell blood.

"Biff, ah cain't load, ah'm hit!"

The smoke-line was incomplete, and we'd just been defanged.

Sonny yelled into the intercom again, "No, ah kin hold it, y'all keep on that coax!"

Biif had apparently tried to go to Sonny's aid. Waved off, he started sending 30-cal downrange.

But it was too late. Mr. Charles still had a good base of fire with a couple of heavy MGs and rockets, and his manuever elements pushed forward to hug the point platoon. If they could get close enough we couldn't even hit them with the coax. We were in trouble.

The old sergeant major was with the point guys, and rose to a crouch, firing a sixty from the shoulder, the ammo belt trailing in the grass. There was a steady bright shower of links and cases dropping around him, and the guys who could still move started falling back.

But he could only engage one group of VC, and just as I was about to tell Biff to traverse and nail the others, he shouted, "Barrel's gone!", and I saw tracer spraying wildly, the rifling in the coax's barrel melted away.

It's coming unglued.

I got on the radio, "Lollipop, engage those guys!"

His head popped up a little higher, turned toward me, and I pointed. Then I recoiled in horror.

"No!"

My shout went unheeded, as New Guy TC climbed out of the turret, cocked the fifty on the sky mount, and, standing in the tank's deck in a rain of gunfire, started shooting. I could see the big Ma Deuce jumping with its peculiar rhythm, a heartbeat of death.

But it was working. That crew couldn't hit much with the main gun, but the green-clad NVA were being literally knocked off their feet by the big slugs. The kid was born to shoot a machine gun.

The sergeant major had gone through a full belt, and dropped down to reload. He rose again, slapping the cover of the feed-tray shut, and then staggered backwards. I could see a gust of blood come from his back.

Oh, no.

I said, "Biff, radio!" and climbed out to unlimber our fifty, and bring it into the fight. We'd just gone from good to bad again.

It was the most frightening thing I ever did. I could feel and hear the bullets snap past, and as Biff took my place in the cupola, he looked back at me with wide eyes. Then he closed them.

I could see the sergeant major trying to get the sixty up again, and he fell backwards, a loop of ammo belt coiling across his chest.

There was a blur of movement from Lollipop, and I saw New Guy TC leap off the glacis, pistol in hand, and run toward the fallen NCO, crossing at an angle in front of us.

Oh, God, no.

His tank started inching forward to give him cover, and I felt Ship of Fools start moving too; Biff was guiding The Dude in support.

New Guy TC reached the sergeant major, and emptied his pistol at the NVA. A bullet must have grazed his head, because he spun around, almost fell, and then knelt next to the wounded man, put in a new mag, and kept shooting.

And then he pulled the old Marine onto his shoulders, and walked slowly, bullets scything the grass at his feet, toward our tank.. The Dude jockeyed us around him, to provide cover, and Biff jumped out of the turret to help me pull the wounded man onto the rear deck, to lay him on the hot engine cover.

I extended my hand to New Guy TC to pull him aboard, but he shook his head. His CVC helmet had been wrecked by the bullet that hit him, and in a gesture of annoyance he pulled it off and threw it to me. "It's busted!" he yelled, and then ran back to his own tank.

***

Mr. Charles apparently watched the kid's performance and decided that we were now fielding lunatics, for his fire slacked off, and he melted away into the scrub of the Z. We were able to set up a perimeter and bring in dustoff to take away the wounded and the dead, and then we crawled back across the line.

Sonny refused the helicopter ride. The ricochet has made a mess of his right bicep, but he wouldn't even take morphine until we got back to Con Thien.

I wanted some morphine, just looking at him.

Back inside the wire, as soon as we parked I ran over to Lollipop, carrying New Guy TC's discarded helmet, The Dude following.

New Guy TC looked at me quizzically.

"You forgot something," I said, holding up the shattered remains.

"Oh," he said. He climbed out of the cupola, and I could see his legs shaking.

The Dude climbed onto the deck, and caught the boy by the shoulder. "Hey, easy."

"Thanks. I don't feel so good."

His crew got out, too. The loader and gunner perched on the turret, and Timex stood on the fender, rubbing his jaw.

The Dude said, "I guess you saw To Hell And Back one too many times."

New Guy TC looked up at him, and then around at all all of us.

"Yeah," he said. "But Audie Murphy was Army. We're Marines."

Your Dying Spouse 123 - Pushing It

We're linked with Messy Marriage's Wedded Wednesday..please visit Beth for some great marriage resources!

Not to be immodest, but I used to be in great shape. Had to be, for my job.

Illness has made thing different; of the 'big three' of running, situps, and chin-ups (which is all you need), the last I could do were the chin-ups.

And I noticed something. If I set a goal during one set, the last chin-up was hard.

But if I set the mark one or two higher, getting past my previous 'goal' was easy.

The lesson here, for the caregiver, is that we can do more than we think we can, and that our expectations do, indeed, limit our performance.

So you can lean on your terminally ill spouse, a bit, to do more.

This is not a cruelty/ We all need to be needed, and we all need to live with the expectation that we will pull our weight for the common good for as long as we're able.

Trouble is, you see someone who's hurting, and you want to let them rest. It's natural, it's kind, and it's wrong.

For their own good, for their own self-respect, you've got to push the dying.

This isn't carte blanche to say, "Well, tough, I need this done, you can die later". (That would work fine for me, by the way.)

But it should make you feel more free to ask for help in the household duties that your dying husband or wife can reasonably do.

Mowing the lawn may be out, but addressing Christmas cards...probably not.

You may get some push-back, because indolence becomes a habit, when justified by pain and fatigue. Please believe me; I deal with it every day. There are things I should do and don't want to do, because it hurts...but I feel worlds better when I get them done, or at least do something.

When you push, you do have to be conscious of what's happening...you don't want to cross the line into thoughtlessness, and it's easy to do, especially when your spouse is eager to help. You need to see when helping becomes pushing becomes overdoing, and then...gently...slow it down.

We all need to be needed, even at death's door.

Let your mate know that you do need their help.

It's the best gift you can give.

Sunday, February 21, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 122 - Forgiveness

We are enjoined to forgive...but we rarely do it well.

Every marriage has its dark corners, the fell places where grudges live. The things we mentally hold in reserve with which we can punish our husbands or wives.

Sometimes we don't use them. Too often, we do.

It's kind of like a torture chamber we keep ready in the basements of our souls, ready to use on the person we're supposed to love more than we love ourselves.

And when we send them there...we join them on the rack.

But when death is at the door, you've got to put those old hurts aside, and not only bury them...you have to scrub them from your soul, because nothing is a worse torment than facing the unquiet ghost of someone you loved, and should have forgiven.

Easy to say. How do you do it?

First, you don't do it alone.

I mean, you wouldn't remove your own appendix, right? This is a kind of soul surgery, and you have to get it right. Mess it up, and you may not have another chance.

Getting it right is spelled C-O-U-N-S-E-L-I-N-G.

The resources are out there, but the main thing is having someone who can guide you through the story of the unforgiveness, and help you release the pain...without simply pushing it aside to crop up later.

Don't. please start off by approaching your terminally ill husband or wife with a "You wronged me, but I forgive you."

It may work if its something he or she has felt badly about, but most of the things we hold against our spouses don't fall into the 'grand tragic evil' category...they arise from quirks of personality, and your forgiveness may sound high-handed, and can at worst come across as a veiled attack.

If you've got to start out with a personal conversation, the best thing might be to approach it like this...

"You know, it really bugged me the way you left the towels on the bathroom floor after you showered...but it was kind of stupid of me to be mad."

A gentle absolution is often best.

Piggybacking an apology of your own can also help, and can turn the session into a group-hug-bury-the-hatchet thing. Again, it's not the setting to apologize for infidelity or beating up your father-in-law (those need a counselor!), but hogging the TV to watch Downton Abbey when your wife wanted to watch Sunday Night Football...that can work.

Finally, there is the forgiveness of a grudge that was unjustly held by you...

And for that, you must forgive yourself.

Thursday, February 18, 2016

Your DYing Spouse 121 - Near-Death Experience {FMF}

It's time for Five Minute Friday, the weekly keyword-driven timed writing challenge hosted by Kate Motaung.

This week's word is...well, I don't know yet. I'm writing in advance, because I nearly died forty-five minutes ago. I'm pretty shaky, and the dogs are freaked out.

Again, thank you to those who sent cards. I am shamefully far behind on email you. Please forgive me.

But please know that they mean the world to me. Truly.

Okay, here we go.

So what is dying like? Do you want to know?

I can't speak for everyone, I suppose, but in the last hour it was like this...I was praying that God let me get up - I was so very tired - and I slipped into a dream.

It was a golfing dream. Sheesh. I used to play that game, long ago.

It was with real people - people I knew, and who I either know or suspect are no longer living. They were much younger, as was I.

The course was a real place, and I could smell the grass, and recognize detail of which I hadn't thought...and haven't seen...in nearly forty years.

It was a nice, summery day. Not too warm, not too cold.

And as it went on, it became so very real...I could feel the texture of the ball as I held it, the wood-y feel of the golf tees, the rubber of the grips on the clubs.

There was nothing special, no epiphany. Just a nice day in the company of friends, things happening rather slowly, and I was waiting my turn to hit a tee shot.

Actually...and maybe this is significant...a 'do-over' at a shot I had mishit.

And then I cam back to a reality that felt more dreamlike than where I had just been.

I was so disappointed that I had not been able to take that swing...but if I had, I am convinced I would not have been able to return.

The offered do-over was my offer to come back here, or stay there.

On such simple things does life lie.

The understanding of what had happened was a cold blade...and the dogs were very, very solemn. They were scared, and I had some nervous pee to clean up. (Theirs, not mine!)

I didn't want to go. I did not want to go.

It's not that it was scary; it was nice. But there are things to do here. There's work to do, and there is help I can still give.

If there are skeptics out there, thinking, well, you passed out, and had a fever-dream...there was no dreamlike quality. I, as you, have had plenty of 'dreams'. This was something unique.

Was it oxygen deprivation? I can speak to that, as I have been deprived of oxygen, and had a 'dream' in that state...and it's quite different. This had structure, coherence, a future. The oxy-deprived hallucination was like being caught in a pale, nonsensical loop.

So the message I can bring you, from the other side, as it were, is that there's nothing to fear. The transition won't hurt.

You won't know that you made a transition...unless you go back.

And Heaven is not a place of static perfection. If you play golf...you'll still hit bad shots. I assume that if you fly aeroplanes, you can crash them. I'm looking forward to that.

And there are limits. You can only hit a golf ball so far. There is wind, and there are bad bounces.

But how could it be otherwise?. God made us to rise to challenges...will we hang up His careful work for Eternity?

It seems that we won't, and that we'll have fun facing the things that try our patience and test our skills now.

So there is this, that what we do here is important.

OUR LIVES HERE MATTER.

You may find that, however attractive the end of pain may be, however great the longing to be in God's presence, to see loved one's...

Duty will call you back.

Let it. It means you're not done.

And that's all.

The aftereffect of all this (I am writing a few words an hour later than the above) is exhaustion, a bit of disorientation, and the feeling of wanting to look carefully at everything around me.

And there's a lot of pain, and I'm puking...and I suspect that definitely means I'm still alive.

PS - Still upright, and learned that the prompt is REGRET.

Do I regret coming back? No. There may be a longing for Heaven, yes, but I would not even put it as strongly as that. It's there, that's all, and one day I'll be there.

I might prefer to miss some things that lie ahead in this life, sure, but I can't say, I wish I were in Heaven now!

That would be kind of ungrateful for the here and now. All will come in its own time. I can live, and die, with that.

Oh, darn. Just learned it's FORGET.

Well, it's an experience I'll never forget. OK?

The musical inspiration for this post came from the Gin Blossoms...

Tuesday, February 16, 2016

What's In A Name - A Story of Viet Nam {#BlogBattle}

Time for this week's #BlogBattle, the keyword-driven flash fiction contest hosted by Rachael Ritchey.

The word this week is Lollipop.

What's In A Name

There was a commotion from the New Guy Tank. The kids were arguing. We were back from Oceanview for a few days' vacation behind the wire on the sunny South China Sea, but at least someone else was pulling security.

The Dude looked at me. "Do we really want to get involved in a domestic dispute?"

The raised voices tore up what should have been a quiet night.

"No." But they were my responsibility, and I got up. They did, after all have guns, and could conceivably decide to usurp Charlie's job and shoot each other.

The Dude rose too. "Want me to load cannister, in case it gets out of hand?"

"Or something. Maybe we need to wake Sonny, so he can take them behind the woodshed." But we let Sonny and Biff sleep the sleep of the innocent and just, and wandered over to the squabbling FNGs.

Timex and the New Guy TC were standing toe to toe, screaming into each other's faces. Timex was waving his arms so hard I thought he might lose both of his watches. "That's a stupid idea!" he yelled, specks of spit spraying into his TC's face.

New Guy TC didn't seem to notice."Yeah, you said that, and it's still my tank!"

The New Guy loader and gunner were sitting on the sand, leaning against adjacent roadwheels, getting grease on their backs. They were entranced.

"Well, it's our tank too!" Timex looked at the loader and gunner for support, and they looked back, uncomfortable. "And I think MARY is a stupid name for a tank!"

I had to agree with that.

New Guy TC raised a fist. "Yeah? It's my wife's name!"

The Dude said, "Is he old enough to be married?", and stepped behind New Guy TC, pinning his arm. "Easy, now."

Timex had taken a step back, not wanting a punch to the nose. He looked down to check that he still had a watch on each wrist. "Well, I have a wife too, and I'm not trying to call the tank Mildred!"

"Thank God," said The Dude.

New Guy TC was struggling in The Dude's grip. "Well, all you have to do is put Mildred's photo on the glacis and you'll scare Charlie to death!"

Timex howled with rage and took a roundhouse swing. I thought it best to try to grab his arm, but missed, and caught the blow with my jaw. As I staggered and the stars came out I felt something drop down my collar...one of Timex's watches.

"Ow!" Timex rubbed his knuckles. "Oh, sorry, sergeant. I didn't mean to hit you."

New Guy loader and gunner had wide, shining eyes, and they probably hadn't had this much fun since high school.

The Dude had pulled New Guy TC out of range. "Uh, guys?" he said, "can we kind of back down a bit?"

I fished Timex's Timex out of my blouse and handed it to him.

"Aw, the strap's broken," he said accusingly, and looked at me.

I shrugged. "Okay, I gather we have a what-to-name-the-tank issue?"

New Guy TC said, "I promised my wife I'd name the tank after her! I wanna call it Mary!"

Timex shook his watchless fist, but kept it away from my face. "That's a girl's name!"

He was nothing if not a Master of the Obvious, and I said, "Yes, that does seem right..."

New Guy TC yelled, "At least Mary looks like a girl!"

Timex bristled. "Huh?"

"At least Mary doesn't have a moustac..."

Timex lunged across the space between them, but met up with The Dude's boot, and quickly sat down, the wind removed from his voice. "Ooof!"

The conversation lagged while Timex tried to catch his breath, and finally he said, in a small voice, "That was mean."

The Dude was still holding New Guy TC around the chest, and I had the impression that he inreased the pressure, just a tad, as New Guy TC said, "I'm sorry. It was."

Rubbing my jaw, I asked Timex, "What do you want to call the tank?"

"Thor's Hammer."

It seemed an odd name, since they had yet to actually hit anything they tried to shoot...and with cannister, that was quite an achievement. But I let it go.

"Well, tell you what. It's late, we're tired, and I think maybe we can work this out in the morning?"

New Guy TC looked down, then looked at Timex. "Yeah, OK. And I really am sorry."

Timex's voice was still small. "Mildred's awful sensitive about the way she looks."

"I'm sorry. But I bet she's got a great personality."

Timex swelled with pride. "She's a keeper!"

It seemed they were about to hug each other, so I said, quickly, "We'll be back at 0600 and give you guys a hand in picking a name, OK?" And The Dude and I left, not looking back.

Maybe it would be a group hug. Ugh.

As the sun rose over the sea-horizon and I had my first cigarette of the morning, there was an anguished wail from the New Guy Tank.

"I feel like a kindergarten teacher," I said to The Dude.

He shrugged, but didn't get up to follow me as I walked over.

New Guy TC came running to meet me. "Someone defaced our tank!" Behind him, Timex was staring at the gun tube. I thought he was about to cry.

And on the tube it said, in fresh, white letter, The Good Ship Lollipop.

I looked back to our tank, and The Dude waved to me, his right hand stained with white paint.

Your Dying Spouse 120 - More Given Than Taken

We're linked with Messy Marriage's Wedded Wednesday; please visit Beth's site for some really important marriage resources.

When you're circling the drain, or a caregiver for someone who is, it's all to easy to focus on what's been taken away.

Like...the ability to enjoy a dinner out with your spouse on Valentine's Day (which happens to be when I am writing this).

Or the chance to go hiking together.

Or sitting on the sofa, cuddling and watching a movie. For me, it hurts too much to be touched...and Barbara is afraid of hurting me, so there we are.

A drive in the country...here in the beautiful High Desert...is out. Hurts too much to ride in the car, and if I take enough painkillers to manage, I'll doze off.

Sex. A part of history.

Yes, it's easy to resent the losses, and to focus on them.

But what about what's been given?

First, there's a sharpening of the preciousness of time, and the petty arguments that were friction in our marriage (and I suppose in any marriage) have largely become a thing of the past. (Not completely...sometimes the stress will blow small things out of proportion for both of us.)

Second, there is economy of conversation, since talking has become difficult. We tend to talk about that which is meaningful, and in so doing see just how much conversation was trivial, entered just to fill uncomfortable spaces of silence.

We've become OK with silence.

Third, I can be more supportive of my wife's career, as mine is over. I can study this, and learn what to say that will get her over the unavoidable insecurities that come with rapid promotion in a challenging profession.

Fourth I guard my tongue. It's not that I would pick a fight by being confrontational or controversial...it's that sometimes expressing an opinion about something small can take away from the warmth of a situation.

Case in point...a few months ago on The Voice a contest absolutely murdered a song that I cherished. I was of a mind to say something...but what would have been the point?

barbara was enjoying it, and the song had less personal resonance than it did with me.

Why did I need to air an opinion?

And I didn't.

And finally, I spend more time in the presence of the Eternal...one foot in the grave, so to speak...and I realize that if I don't love ferociously now, when am I going to do it?

You may have gotten this far and be wondering about God...does this bring us closer together in His presence?

I think it does, but on a level that is wrapped up in the true blessings defined above. He is implicit in all of them.

Sunday, February 14, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 119 - A Caregiver's Psalm

Out of the depths I call to you, O LORD,
LORD, hear my cry!
May your ears be attentive
to my cries for mercy!
If you, LORD, mark our sins,
LORD, who can stand?
But with You is forgiveness,
and so you are revered.

I wait with longing for the LORD,
my soul waits for His word.
My soul looks for the LORD,
more than sentinels for daybreak.
More than sentinels for daybreak,
let Israel look for the LORD.
For with the LORD is kindness,
with Him is full redemption,
and God will redeem Israel
from all their sins.

Ps. 130

Caregiving is hard...and there will be days when you fail, miserably. And you'll know it.

You'll be impatient...and there will be times you're cruel...and you'll want to be uninvolved, and distance yourself.

It's so very hard, watching someone you love die. And each failing can make you feel physically ill, because they didn't ask for this...and you are all they've got.

And to be honest, your terminally ill husband or wife may not make it easier.

There will be constant calls for attention, for you to do the things they can't do for themselves...or think they can no longer do for themselves.

You'll sit down, and you'll be called to get up again.

You'll settle into a hot bath, and immediately have to step out, to be attentive...and by the time you've made it back it's time to get some sleep,and the bathwater's gone cold anyway.

You need help.

And, frankly, the only dependable help is going to come from on high. Friends will commiserate, but that doesn't make the whole thing less irritating, or your failings less glaring nor less guilt-inducing.

I'm a Christian, so I chose a Psalm...but whatever you believe...and I hope you believe something...you will find that these are indeed the times that try souls, and you've got to throw your heart, and your pain, and your hope as high as you can...

And hope that Someone will catch it.

Thursday, February 11, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 118 - The Limits of Love {FMF}

Time for Five Minute Friday, the weekly keyword-inspired timed writing challenge hosted by the inimitable Kate Motaung.

This week's word is LIMIT. (And Kate gave me the word ahead of time, so that I had some hope of writing something...she's wonderful.)

So...let's go.

This is all very hard to write.

When you're dying, you learn a lot of interesting things. Kind of like Schooldays in Hell, really.

One of those is that love has limits. It has to have limits.

My world is winding down, and I'm concerned largely with blood and bone...how much blood am I losing, and how on earth am I going to be able to accomplish something meaningful today?

Will it be a day where all I can do is watch a DVD and have a cigar, and wait for my rationed morphine to kick in?

I almost died last night; I felt the shadow of the wings of the angel of death, and I could not breathe. Sylvia did canine CPR, jumping on my chest and barking into my face.

I think she broke one of my ribs, but who cares? Really.

Barbara didn't know; she needs a full nights' sleep to do her job, so I sleep on an ottoman in the kennel. Barb has her own room. Since I tend to wake up screaming from pain, some nights, this probably really saves her nerves (but what, I wonder, do the dogs think?).

And she should not have to notice these things, because her life will go on. She needs to look forward to what her life can still be. She's got a great job; it deserves her best. And she has many years ahead of her.

She can't, and should not pare her outlook down to a grim finality.

For her, American Idol is important. It should be; the songs move her, and they speak to her heart.

To me they're noise, manufactured emotion. With very few exceptions, they have nothing to do with me, no reference points that fit my life. I've lost that meaning, and see things through a lens that only allows the highest contrasts.

Life.

And death.

But I'm wrong. My outlook is flawed.

It's me that's leaving. And to impose upon my wife the viewpoint that's been through a refiners' fire of pain is unfair.

The plain fact is that at some point, the caregiving spouse has to begin a process of dissociation...to survive.

I don't want Barbara to be broken by my death, and sure as hell don't want this process to linger. I want her to have a normal life,after I'm dead, to find a guy she can hike with, and who'll be able to stand with her in church and sing, someone who can laugh and linger over coffee and who doesn't see every calendar as marking an inexorable slide.

I don't want her life to become a memorial to mine.

You can't live in someone else's Gethsemane. You can pray with them (and not fall asleep). You can stand at the foot of the Cross. You can anoint the body with oil...but you can't walk the Green Mile.

And the caregiver has to step away from Love, or be pulled beneath the waves as the ship goes down.

And I think that is enough. I'm in too much pain to write more.

Tuesday, February 9, 2016

Chasm of Dread - A Story of Viet Nam {#BlogBattle}

Time for this week's #BlogBattle, the keyword-driven flash fiction contest hosted by Rachael Ritchey.

The word this week is CHASM.

Chasm of Dread

Slow time on bridge guard, with dusk falling, the sun far down behind a wall of clouds over the central highlands.

"Smoking lamp's out, guys."

Sonny stubbed out his dreadful cigar, and carefully wrapped the butt. "Just when ah'm a gittin' to the good part, TC."

"Sorry."

There was an ARVN platoon dug ito fighting positions forward,, and The Dude said "Hey, TC, here comes their officer."

I looked up. The Vietnamese lieutenant waved, and slowed. "Mind if I join you for a few minutes?" His English was unaccented.

We rose. It wasn't required that we salute him, an officer of a foreign army, but he did deserve respect. "Sure."

He was tall for a Vietnamese, and in the fading light I saw that his eyes were not dark mahogany, but gray. Unusual.

"Thanks, guys. I don't suppose y'all have a beer?" he smiled, not expecting one, but Sonny climber up the glacis, dropped into the turret, and reappeared a moment later with a can of Miller.

"Here, L.T, catch. Sorry it's warm."

The lieutenant smiled a broad, delighted smile, deftly catching the can without jarring it. I figured he'd hold it till morning.

But no...he popped the top, and sucked back what foam there was, leaving himself a weirdly Santa-like white moustache and beard. It was kind of upsetting, since these guys were our security, but there wasn't much I could say.

He sat down with us, sipping the beer. "So how's it going?"

The Dude was as uncomfortable as I was. "Uh, it's going OK...sir."

"Never mind the sir. Name's Troung." he offered his hand, and we all shook it, comrades together, of whom one was having a pre-guard-duty beer.

Troung caught the feeling. "Relax. You're safe. Charlie won't come tonight." He patted his chest. I guarantee it.

There was a powerful confidence in his tone, and something sad, too. I noticed that he wore a US Ranger tab on his shoulder, which may have explained the confidence.

But why the sorrow?

The Dude asked quietly, "How do you know?"

Troung pulled out a pack of cigarettes, shook one into his hand, and was about to light it when The Dude said, "Uh, sir..."

The lieutenant flipped open a zippo, and his face was orge-lit in the flame. he puffed, and said, "It's OK. Charlie won't come. Not with me here, not tonight."

I was tempted to snatch the thing out of his mouth. I didn't share his confidence.

But The Dude asked, "What's a Ranger doing here?" It was a good question; the Vietnamese Rangers, especially one of their number who went through the US school, were valued assets, hunters. They didn't stand post.

Truong blew out a cloud of smoke. "I come from U Minh. They sent me here to give me more time."

It was Greek...well, Vietnamese...to me.

But not to The Dude.

"What happened?" he asked, with warmth and sorrow that matched Truong's.

"NVA main force crossed the border, and holed up in the forest. We needed to pin them so the arty could give them a walloping, but the local units wouldn't go into the U Minh. Bunch of superstitious gooks...so it was me and a couple of Nung fire teams."

He took a drag, and said, "See, I'm as American as you guys. My Dad was a Catholic lay missionary, and during the war a family hid him from the Japs. In 1945 he went back to San Francisco, and took the eldest daughter with him. My mom."

"So why're you an ARVN?" Biff asked.

"It's my country. My people. I jined up in the states, got tabbed, and then decided, well, I owed it to these guys to fight with them. So The Army did the paperwork, and I became Marvin the ARVN." He looked down. "I regretted that."

"Why?" asked The Dude.

Troung didn't answer directly. "See, the locals were afraid of U Minh. But I'm an American...no 'Forest of Darkness' can scare me, right? And the Nungs...they aren't scared of anything."

"Yeah," said Sonny. "Ah done heard of them."

"So we went in. It was spooky. You spend ten minutes there, man, that place is evil. You know? Death drips off the trees." He shook his head. "But the Nungs didn't care, and I had to lead them. had to set an example. Can't control those boys elsewise."

"Did you find the NVA?" The Dude asked.

"No." The answer was short.

"Ah," said The Dude.

"Our point guy found a fissure in the ground, and we figured, well, they might be in there. It was dark, and we couldn't see the bottom...but there was no movement, no smell, nothing." In the bush you can smell people before you can see them, and since the Nungs ate a different diet, they were good at that.

"So the guys were lined up on both sides, looking in...curious, like. And then the flame came out."

"Mr. Charles carrying a flamethrower?" asked Sonny.

Truong shook his head, no. He didn't speak.

"It wasn't a flamethrower, Sonny," said The Dude.

"Mee-thane?" Sonny was persistent.

"No." The Dude spoke, because Truong was still silent, his head bowed, face intermittently red-lit by the cigarette.

"What was it?" Biff's voice had a slight tremor.

"Dragon," said Truong.

"Wait, wha..?"

The Dude cut Sonny off.

"It took them all. I ran."

"Thar ain't now such thing," said Sonny. But in the dark night, he didn't sound convinced.

"Yes, there are," said Truong. "Dragons of air, and dragons of earth."

"Why didn't you shoot it?" Biff's voice had risen an octave.

Truong looked at him with pity. "You don't shoot a dragon. You can't. They have armour..." his voice trailed off.

"It told you its name?" The Dude's voice was very quiet.

Truong nodded. "So I am safe, until he comes for me. I feel the vibrations in the earth. He's close. ARVN sent me here, to give me time."

"To put your affairs in order," said The Dude.

"Yes."

"And that's why Charlie won't attack. He hears it coming, and he doesn't want to interfere."

Sonny wouldn't give up. "Ah still think it was a guy with a flamethrower."

Truong looked up at him, and smiled. "Bless you...maybe you're right. Maybe you're right, at that."

He stood, thanked us for the beer and the company, and said, "Well, in the morning, them..."

And he walked off.

At 0200 a thunderstorm rolled in, and mingled in the thunder and lighting was the boom of a claymore, from a fighting position to the right of the road. And then a deeper, sharper BLAM.

"Charlie! shouted The Dude, standing radio watch. "Biff, traverse right!"

But all there was, was rain, and thunder, and lightning. The ARVNs had a mad minute, but there was no return fire, and theirs slowed down to a few nervous pops, the soldiers cowering in their holes, waiting for the day

When dawn was lighting the east, a Vietnamese sergeant came running back, and shouted to my, "Trung si, you come, di di! Please!"

I jumped off Ship of Fools and ran with him, The Dude hard on my heels.

The sergeant ran ahead, then slowed, and paced forward uncertainly. He turned back to us."Our trung uy, he was here..."

And there was a blackened hole in the ground, from which still rose wisps of smoke that smelled of sulfur. A claymore clacker lay to one side, the green plastic of the firing grips partly melted, and an M-16 lay beyond it.

Claymores don't make a hole.

And this one was deep. We couldn't make out the bottom

The Vietnamese sergeant asked, "VC mine?"

I nodded. "Yeah...VC mine, trung si."

"Where body our trung uy? VC steal?"

"I guess...uh, yes, trung si." The VC recovered their own bodies. They didn't typically steal ours, or ARVNs.

The sergeant shook his head. "Numbah ten place fo' fight position."

"Yes. Number ten."

He shook his head again, and wandered off. He was in command of the ARVNs now. he walked a little taller, but he looked back, just once.

"Well," said The Dude, "I guess Truong figured the claymore was worth a try."

The End

And yes...this is the way it happened. Draw what conclusions you may choose.

Your Dying Spouse 117 - When It's Time To Quit

We're linked with Messy Marriage's Wedded Wednesday -please visit beth for great marriage wisdom!

They say that animals know when it's time to let go, and die.

People are like that too, sometimes...and there may come a day when you realize that your terminally ill husband or wife is letting go.

It may be that they're ready, or it may be that the fight has simply gotten too hard, and hope to slim.

It can be a terrible knowledge to face...and what can you do?

First, recognize that it may be a temporary thing. Courage and strength fluctuate, and while we'd all like to be steadfast, we aren't even in the normal challenges of daily life.

The aftereffects of surgery, chemo, radiation...they can make death feel like a balm. We all have our limits, and aggresive treatments can push us straight into them.

If that's the case, it's important not to jump to conclusions; don't reinforce the feeling, either by words or actions. If it is a temporary lapse, weighing in with "yes, I understand...you can let go" can make fighting back to a position of hope all the harder.

It can make one feel more alone in the fight...and trust me, please, it is a lonely fight.

Second, if the decision to give up is the real thing, be supportive, and make clear the message that the time you have left with your husband or wife is important to you.

Even the real statement of giving up contains an implicit appeal...please tell me that I mattered, that our life together meant something, and still means something. Please.

It's a hard burden for the caregiver, because you've got to shoulder the emotional weight of another person. It's not an attempt at manipulation.

It simply means that your husband or wife can no longer go on alone.

It may be time to let go, to step away from the treatments and the medication, and to accept the grace of death and the hope of the life to come.

You may not agree. You may want to say, "Keep fighting!"

But that decision's not yours to make.

But it is your road to walk; because...

Please, don't let me walk it alone.

Sunday, February 7, 2016

Your Dying Spouse 116 - Evangelizing The Dying

We're all supposed to marry fellow believers, and most of us do.

But faith is not constant, and severe circumstances, of which terminal illness is only one, can erode it badly.

Or it may never really have been there at all.

Or it may have been there in another form.

Whereby in the worst of times...when the person you love most in the world is dying...you may, as a caregiver, find yourself unequally yoked.

And what do you do?

If you think your husband or wife is unsaved, or has let salvation slip...you're supposed to win them back, right?

Well...wait.

First, assess the situation.

When someone's under stress...like, in extreme pain, or very depressed...he or she can say things that they would not under even 'the new normal' say.

I've shaken my fist at the sky and told God to take his 'plans' for me and treat them unconventionally.

Do I hate God? No. Was I in a lot of pain, and completely at sea in how to deal with it? Yes.

The surrendered salvation you see may just be an emotional blip. I doubt that God takes these seriously; neither should you.

Second, listen over time.

Yes, time may be critical, and salvation may be a vital question in the short term.

You, however, are not the salvor. God is. God alone knows how much time there is, and you've got to give Him room to work.

It's hard and frustrating - and scary - to stand back. But we can't really know another's heart, not even the person we've lived with, and loved, for decades. The relationship with the Almighty is intensely personal.

Give it time, and give that time over to God.

Third, do no harm.

You may see your mate's faith morphed into something that looks New-Age-y, or Eastern, or 'spiritual'...and NOT see the 'confession with the mouth' renewed in daily life.

But there still may be faith there, like a small, glowing ember.

If you blow too hard, you can snuff it out. Comfort, even the comfort that seems false to you, is extremely important to a dying man or woman.

Yes, it may look like...and be...false doctrine. And you may be itching to jump in and save your loved one from damnation.

Don't. Let Jesus do that. C.S. Lewis, in the final book of the Narnia series, The Last battle, relates the story of a young soldier of Telmar, a state that swore enmity to Aslan, the Lion under whose rule Narnia would find eternal grace.

This soldier, a worshipper of the dreadful and evil false god Tash, nevertheless swore honour and fealty...and these good things, Aslan claimed as his own.

Give Jesus room to work.

Fourth, evangelize by example.

To rescue a drowning man, you have to make sure you are not dragged under.

This is the time to immerse yourself in Scripture, and live by it.

This means that, first and foremost, youhave to guard what you say. You can't afford a word of despair, even if you're feeling it, and even if you see things happening that make you question God's goodness.

You have to address doubt and despair in your own heart, yes, but not with a dying spouse. You've got to turn to a pastor, to a trusted brother or sister in Christ, and to The Word.

In other words, you've got to suck it up, and move forward.

You can't give someone faith, but you can water the ground in which it can grow again.

Here's the musical inspiration for this post -